


Palimpsest

by clusband



Series: Marchix Cinematic Universe [2]
Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Clown Content, F/M, Fluff, Insectivorous Characters, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Self care is describing your favorite character in the worst outfits you can imagine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-06 13:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20291875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clusband/pseuds/clusband
Summary: What do a broken husktop, a game of dress up, and a date with Alternia's most eligible clown have in common?





	Palimpsest

**Author's Note:**

> _Palimpsest, noun, from the Greek "palin," again, and "psest," rubbed smooth; a manuscript or piece of writing material on which the original writing has been effaced to make room for later writing but of which traces remain._

Your husktop comes back to itself with a whirr, a wind-up, then a fizz.

“Hm. Well, at least there’s electricity sloshing around somewhere in that slime.” Biriah hovers your husktop daintily up like a piece of evidence at a crime scene, her expression twisted in concentration. Dual images of you reflect off of her goggles, a seafoam green Chixie and a purple Chixie, both wearing the best approximation of ‘hesitant optimism’ that they can muster.

“That’s great!” you fold your hands in front of you to quell your anxiety. She seems to notice, quirking an eyebrow at you as she moves her goggles off her eyes and up to rest on her forehead. 

“I can’t really afford another one right now,” you offer by way of explanation. 

“Ha! The lowblood paradox,” she bustles about in her repair block, sifting through drawers, discarding pieces of scrap metal and picking up tools with delicate bits and bobs that you could never guess the function of. “Do we buy new husktops, so we can keep up with our work and try to make more money, starving in the process?” She lovingly uncrumples a piece of aluminum in her hands, smoothing it out with precise passes of her hands on her table. “Or do we save our money for food, hoping for a windfall?” Where her words are bitter, her face is amused, wrought in a wry sort of smile. You huff a sardonic laugh with her.

The knowledge that it’s not always this bad makes it a little easier to joke about.

“It doesn’t help that I get paid in pretty smiles,” she flirts, tilting her head as she lowers her goggles back over her eyes, pulling off pieces of your husktop with brusque, staccato motions. You punch her in the arm lightly, hiding your smile. Biriah is harmless- she flirts with everyone. You watch the lines of her arms as she works, and how her brows draw together in concentration. She’s focused, intent. Maybe the reason you like her so much is that she reminds you of someone else.

Your thoughts are cut short by the grumble of her stomach. You hold up your pack. Considering the contents, you hesitate to call it lunch.

“Lucky for you, I can offer more than that,” you say, untying the knot that keeps your cloth bundle closed. Inside, you’ve packed some raw vegetables and spread, thick slices of a dark, grainy grubloaf that you baked, and some soft, spreadable cheese leftover from your dinner a few nights back.

Biriah picks up a slice of grubloaf. 

“You made this yourself?” she asks, appraising it with as much care as she appraised your husktop, not minutes earlier. 

You nod. “It’s a little stale; I baked it a few nights ago.” 

She shrugs her shoulders, holding the bread flat on her palm. Her eyes flash, the copper tattoos of her left arm light up with psychic intent. Spirals of her seafoam and purple and something in between illuminate softly under her skin like a lighthouse through the fog. The scent of toasting bread fills your nose. Your phone buzzes.

“I’m surprised you found the time,” she says as she flips the bread over. The bread is perfectly toasted. You briefly fret over the germs from her hand, but decide the heat probably sanitizes her skin. Hey, you’re a musician, not a biologist. “You’ve seemed distracted lately. We haven’t been seeing much of you around the subgrub.”

Your phone buzzes again, then twice more. You turn it over to glance at the screen- four texts from Marvus.

“Oh, I’ve just had my hands full lately,” you say, smiling into your bite of bread.

* * *

_ MX: ayy wat up ! _

_ MX: ya mans just got done with rehearsal wanna chit chat _

_ MX: i gots this idea i think u wld like LOL _

_ MX: yo hmu when ur free :o) _

You read through his texts as you walk through your subgrub. You imagine his silly sing-song voice, and suddenly, texting doesn’t feel like enough.

He picks up after two rings.

“Ayy my girl!” he screams through the phone at what must be a hundred decibels. You wince, holding the phone away from your ear. As your hearing recovers, you pick up the sounds of the music he’s listening to. Although you can’t hear the words, and the melody is drowned out from the thrum of the bass, you can faintly hear the vibrations of his limo trying to hold itself together through the onslaught of noise.

“Yo hold on!” you hear him shout. He turns it down, and you finally hold the phone back up to your ear. “Better?”

“Much better. How was rehearsal?”

Marvus regales you with tales of his back up dancers for nearly the entire duration of your walk home. One of them jumped too high and broke his ankle upon landing. You wonder what kind of dancing Marvus is doing that requires any type of jumping. Another split their pants right down the middle today and had to borrow a pair of Marvus’s backup shorts. Marvus tells you it’s been the most expensive practice he’s held in sweeps. You don’t doubt that.

Once he’s done talking about himself, he asks you about what you’ve been doing all day. You tell him about your husktop, how it’s almost fully repaired, and he responds with genuine sympathy.

“Shit sucks sis I’m real sorry to hear that,” he says. “You was workin’ on some new shizz, am I right?”

“Yeah! I was so close to being finished, too,” you let the frustration bleed through your voice. It’s such a relief to have someone who understands what it’s like. He won’t belittle your problems because he’s been through them, too. “I kept getting stuck on this one part…” you trail off.

“Yeah? Let’s up and fucking hear it, boo!” you can hear him getting rowdy in his limo, the leather of his seats squeaking as he shifts around. Oh boy.

“My husktop is broken, remember?” 

“Yeah. Get to humming that noise for me. I’ll lay out the beatbox for ya.”

You hesitate- this feels embarrassing. But, what the hell, when has Marvus ever made you feel bad about yourself? You start with the simple 5 note melody you started with, and Marvus finds the rhythm instantly. It’s almost exactly what you had going on.

“No, it was more like this,” you beatbox a rhythm for him: one and two and three-four-five-six, one and two…

He picks it up, and you continue your melody.

“Alright! Hit it, b!” he picks up your melody and starts slapping the beat onto what sounds like his thighs. You don’t understand quite what he means until you hear him double back on the melody. You never thought you could hear music sound expectant. 

“Wha- Marvus I can’t freestyle right now!” you’re laughing as you sort through your keyring, looking for the one that lets you into your hive.

“Why not though?”

The question gives you pause. You’re good at- no, you’re a fucking _savant_ at freestyling.

“I don’t know,” you tell him honestly.

“You come up with lyrics yet?”

“No,” you start feeling frustrated all over again. “That's exactly the problem I was having with this song earlier, now that you mention it. I can’t shape any words to fit the music.” Your lusus runs up to you as you enter, her tail held high and wiggling in fond recognition, and her chirps loud and excited. You give her a scratch as Marvus starts talking again.

“Wellll maybe the problem is that it don’t sound like you, Chix,” he starts. His voice is so soft you want to curl up in it, wrap yourself in the comfort he’s offering.

“What? Not being able to come up with lyrics?”

“Nah, the song itself. It’s too light. You ain’t that type, girl. You always hitting hard and heavy. Meaningful and shit. You feel me?”

He’s right. Damn it, it seems so obvious now that he’s said it out loud.

“I’m going to have to try something new eventually,” you tell him. On instinct, you head for your desk before realizing your husktop is at Biriah’s for repairs. You sit down anyway.

Marvus starts talking about himself again. Honestly, you’re relieved. You like hearing his thoughts, and you need some time to chew on your own situation. To tailor his solution to fit you.

You spin around in your chair as he talks to you. You catch the sight of your cabinets, freshly painted by you and Senlet, your arza friend. The many jewel tones blur and swirl into each other as the momentum from your chair spins you around. You watch your lusus jump up on your draft plane and touch your pencils with the tip of her talons, threatening to knock them all the ground, one by one. A lazy summer’s breeze finds its way in through your windows, stirring heavy and warm through your hair, against your skin, before meandering along elsewhere. You listen to Marvus’s rich voice and imagine his heavy arm around your shoulder.

It’s the first time in sweeps that this has felt like home.

“Let’s go out tonight,” you interrupt him. “I miss you.”

“Hellz yeah!” you can hear his voice echo now as he steps into the empty space of his foyer. “Gimme a few hours, a clown gets fuckin sweaty after rehearsal LOL. Bring ya favorite clothes, I’ll send da lyft.”

Uh-oh, that sounds ominous coming from him.

“What kind of clothes? Where are we going?” you ask. 

Silence.

“Hello? Marvus?”

“Oops lol I was winking at you. It’s gonna be a surprise! Just have fun with it. You won’t be under-dressed.”

You give him your best unimpressed silence.

“We’ll get dressed together! Yo- don’t I always make it fun?”

He’s right.

“Okay,” you relent, looking at your closet.

Those four hours don’t seem like enough time, suddenly.

* * *

Entering Marvus’s hive while trailing a wheeled suitcase behind you feels weirdly final. Like you’re about to be sent off-planet. Still, it’s hard to feel proper terror when you walk past the huge painting of Marvus that he keeps hung up in the foyer, throwing up signs like Mr. Tough Guy. Marvus himself greets you at the door to his respite block with his hair still wet, the towel draped around his shoulders.

“Ayy wassup baby!” he goes for the fistbump before leaning into you fully, wrapping his arm around your shoulder to lead you into his block. 

“Hi Marvus,” you feel at ease instantly as you sigh your greeting. Most of the tension you’ve been carrying leaves with your breath, as if the weight of his arm can push it out of you. 

It’s really good to see him. You’re surprised at how good it feels, actually. Even though he’s been on tour for the past few months, he’s called you nearly every night. You thought you’d be sick of him by now. 

“So what’s going on? Why did I bring my entire closet here?”

“Thought we could play dress up,” he says, untying the knot that keeps his robe closed. You avert your eyes before he steps behind his dressing curtain. 

“I been lacking the wicked inspiration,” he calls out from behind. Then he peeks his head around, giving you a mischievous look. “Besides, thought you could use some fucking fun.” He beckons for you to come behind the curtain with him.

You step through the curtain to find a completely new room. What is this, fucking Narnia for clowns?

Dominating the center of this room is a circular stage, roughly three feet in diameter, surrounded by mirrors at all angles. On the far side of the wall, beside a window that appears to span the length of the entire far side of his hive, is another vanity. Unlike the vanity in his respite block, this one is not nearly as lovingly decorated, covered not with pictures of his friends but with bottles and jars of gels and sprays and who knows what else. The hairbrush tells you this must be where he does his hair. You seat yourself in the velvet chair that waits patiently before it, not ready to face yourself at so many angles.

“I’ve been having plenty of fun on my own,” you deflect, nervous suddenly.

“Yeah? Whatchu been up to since I got gone?” Marvus winks at you as he ties his hair back. “My girl been partying, getting the gall to let fucking loose?”

“I baked some grubloaf,” you say. “My friend came over and we painted the cabinets in my culinary block. I’ve been getting things done.”

“No shit?” he says, getting you all pumped up on his tone alone as he steps into his walk-in closet. You take a quick peek inside. A myriad of clothes and unpaired shoes litter the ground. You expected as much. “Tell me about it!”

You tell him all about how Senlet came over to help you brighten up your hive. Your cabinets are resplendent in hundreds of jewel tones and about as many patterns. You look forward to coming home now! Then you tell him about the grubloaf you baked, how you shared it with Biriah earlier. You tell him about Biriah’s tattoos. You speculate at how the conductive metals under her skin work, if maybe it’s all connected to her brain. You think Marvus might be a bad influence on you- once you start talking, it’s difficult to stop. 

But you do come to a stop once he comes out of his closet. He’s dressed in the tackiest outfit you’ve ever seen- white hoodie that looks like he stepped under a golden slime curtain and never removed the stains; hounds-tooth pants that hug his hips and thighs uncomfortably tight, cropped at the calf; worst of all, a huge red and gold watch that ticks loudly with every second, slightly offbeat every seventh second. Everything about his outfit irritates you.

Still, he steps onto his stage proudly. He admires himself in the mirror, picking imaginary lint off of his hoodie and moving his pants around so they don’t fit him so tight.

“Soo what you think?” he turns to look at you from profile, giving you the amused sort of side-eye that tells you he knows exactly what you think of his outfit.

“Remember that tabloid that featured us? I think it said _ From Circus to C-list? _” He nods at you. “You managed to capture the spirit of both.” He throws his head back and laughs, and you decide to join him.

“Can you even read analog time?” He doesn’t answer, taking the watch off and throwing it in the closet. At least the offbeat ticking has stopped. As he throws his watch, he picks up a snapback from where it was hanging on the back of his closet door.

“What about now though?” he laughs. He flips something on the front of his hat, unfolding the most useless pair of sunglasses you’ve ever seen resting 4 inches away from his face. You snort at him before he takes his hat off and throws it at you. You try it on. He gets the same horn hole placement put into his clothes that you do, 2c style. It fits your head perfectly.

“I got that hat on tour, sweeps ago,” he starts removing his hoodie without an ounce of shame. “Thought it was funny.”

You get the sense that it’s your turn. You’re feeling very out of place. All of your clothes are more, well, ‘understated’ would be the kind way to put it, but ‘simple’ is more honest.

Marvus picks up on it, too.

“Want me to help you pick them out?” You shake your head at him, embarrassed suddenly. “Whassup? What’s got you so quiet?”

You hesitate, but, ultimately, you’ve found that Marvus is just going to get you to tell him anyway. So you just fucking go for it.

“I just feel a little out of place.” You start. He looks at you expectantly. No, that’s patience you’re seeing. You continue.

“Your clothes are so much fun, even when they’re,” you pause, smiling at his ridiculous pants. “Awful. My clothes aren’t.”

“Nah fam, my clothes are fuckin _ silly,_ just like me,” he walks towards you, holding his hand out. “And your clothes are sweet and cute, just like you.” He pulls you to your feet, enticing you to your suitcase. “You just gotta do what makes you feel it.”

You don’t really know how to ‘feel it,’ but you’ll try. Because you love him and because you truly believe that he’s going to make you have fun, one way or another. He always does. 

You root through your suitcase, feeling everything out. You find your favorite yellow shirt patterned with little cat heads, and a pair of black corduroy pants you wore on a date with him once. They’re clothes that make you feel good, so you wear them.

“Hey, check you out haha!” He hypes you up immediately. He comes up to the stage with you, turning you towards your reflection. You study yourself in the mirror- you look happy. Confident. And your legs look killer in these pants. You look to him for approval, but he just spins you around, laughing.

“Aww my girl’s so pretty with it though!” he says, delighted. “You finna be sweatin like a sinner in that corduroy though.” He’s right. You put them back in your suitcase, lounging around in a pair of shorts as you wait for him to come out with his next look.

And his next look turns out to be even worse than his first. He’s wearing black sweat pants with a checkered stripe of fabric covering the side seams and a yellow shirt that’s tight around his chest. Printed on this shirt is a pair of cherubs, their green skull faces wearing exaggerated expressions of “mischief” and “deep sorrow” as they appear to hold up his pecs with the strength of the messiahs themselves; more gold jewelry than you can count; and, the _pièce de résistance:_ an 80’s patterned jacket in shades of white, purple, and teal with black squiggles. You have to hold your fist in front of your mouth to keep from laughing. He notices your expression and strikes a pose, bringing his fists together at the thumb to reveal his dual CAP-R-IST rings, the ‘r’ cut in half for symmetry. As he moves, his immaculately white shoes light up, flashing the same colors of his jacket. You can’t help it- first you’re snorting, then you’re holding your gut laughing. It’s not that Marvus can’t be scary, he just isn’t tough like that. He deflates as he laughs alongside you, abandoning his thuggish demeanor.

You know it’s your turn next, so you do your best to straddle the line between ‘fun’ and ‘cute.’ You pull out an off-white button-down, the one with the lacy collar, and a burgundy skirt patterned with multicolored feathers. The fabric of the skirt moves beautifully- you do a little spin in the mirror and Marvus whoops and cheers at you. But still...

“I’m just not feeling this one,” you say, deflating.

“We frosty. Wasn’t done trying shit on anyway,” Marvus says. “Give me one more spin though?”

You do.

“Hehe you look cute, like you’re bout to fly up and a-fucking-way. Why not this one?”

“I guess it just doesn’t feel that fun to me. Something is missing,” you deflate. “I guess my clothes are usually for function instead of fashion.”

Marvus makes a contemplative ‘hm’ at you. Before you know it, he’s behind you, his arms soothing the tense muscles of your shoulders briefly.

“Wish you’d stop worrying about that shit,” he says gently, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your head. “Just have fun with it. I want you to feel good.” He kisses you on the temple. You think you get it. Your skirt billows in the breeze from his open window, winding around your legs. His hair tickles at your cheek.

You lean back into him, doing your best to acclimate this whole dress-up thing into your comfort zone. It’s easier, knowing that it’s Marvus. Marvus never lies to you. Marvus always wants you to have a good time.

“It’s your turn,” you mumble to him. You extract yourself from his hold and go back to your chair, smoothing out your skirt. Maybe you aren’t quite smiling, still a little out of your element, but the thing is: you could if you wanted to. 

Marvus seems to take a leaf out of your book for the next one. He’s wearing a purple plaid skirt, complete with chains and a variety of bells, over fishnets, and tank top with the numbers ‘69’ over a sheer long-sleeved shirt with multicolored smiley faces with clown noses. He jingles as he moves around, and his skirt moves with him in the elegant way that suggests he’s worn one before. It’s not a bad look, not really, but it’s got more edge than Marvus usually has.

“Damn, you had me inspired but I think I missed the mark a lil,” he twists and turns in his skirt, listening to the jingles of the bells. Hearing that he was inspired by you lights up an idea in your head.

“Hey, would you mind if I tried on some of your clothes?” you ask him. He raises an eyebrow at you. “For inspiration. To see what my outfits are missing?” 

“Oh shit, you’re feeling it now, huh?” he teases. You nod, smiling. You’re starting to see what he’s getting at.

For your next outfit, you sift through his closet for a couple of minutes. You gather a few of your favorite things, some that are so bold that you would never wear them outside of this context, others more to your taste. You make a pile and see that Marvus has gone down to his culinary block to get some water for the two of you as he waited. You’re thankful. You hadn’t realized how the heat was affecting your thirst, and how your thirst was subsequently affecting your mood, until you down the entire glass. 

Your next look is more ‘you,’ all around. You’ve found one of your shirts from two of your favorite memories: the grubbels band tee. You remember the night you got it, the concert that your friends held on their lawn ring. And, you remember the time Marvus took care of you after a nasty hangover. He slept over at your hive for the first time wearing this shirt. You found a navy leather jacket deep in his closet, and stole the hounds-tooth cut offs from his first look. They fit you much better than they fit him, although they are a bit longer on your comparatively shorter frame than what is fashionable.

“Yuhh, thinking you finally got it!” he says with excitement, sitting up straighter in his chair. “Ayy come on sis show it off!”

You show it off, striking pose after pose. He’s got you laughing with him. His laugh is really an epidemic, so infectious that you wonder if he could get an entire subgrub laughing with him.

“I don’t have the shoes I want, though,” you tell him. “I was thinking cowboy boots, but I don’t have any.”

He expresses disappointment with you, and, honestly, it’s nice to explore this part of you. Together. You never knew how much freedom you could find in something as frivolous as clothing.

As Marvus steps out in his next look, you realize it’s not the clothes that make you feel free. He spins around in his traffic cone orange cargo pants, tapering from his waist to hug around his ankles. It’s him, he’s what makes you feel free. To be yourself and to let go and to have fun: that’s all him.

His cyan tube top, patterned with eggplants, fits him well- you aren’t surprised. With a chest like that, his top is going nowhere. And he looks cozy in an oversized cardigan, sporting bold orange, cyan, purple, and red alternating stripes. He looks daring and fun and cozy and kind, all at once.

“I like this one,” you say.

“Yeah, but I ain’t got the shoes for it,” he pouts, mocking you. You shove past him with fond exasperation, digging through his closet.

“Here!” you call, throwing a pair of timbs at him. He’s etched a clown smile on the toe of the right one. It suits him.

The finished look is loud. It’s very Marvus.

“I love it,” you tell him. He blushes, you think. It’s hard to tell with the face paint.

You’re feeling the spirit, now. With determination and inspiration mingling in your head, you piece together an outfit. You find a plain black tanktop you haven’t worn in sweeps. You wore it to your first concert; It’s another shirt that has good memories. It settles over your skin like a breath. You feel sexy; you feel daring. Yes, this is the right shirt.

Finding the right pants feels more difficult. It’s going to take a lot to make a plain black tank top look exciting. You sort through the pile of Marvus’s clothes, looking for the perfect pair of pants, or a skirt, or, hell, even some sweatpants.

They find you at the last moment. A pair of silver holographic bell bottoms. They’re perfect. You plunge your legs into them at once. They’re only a little too long on you. They fit your calves perfectly, but are a little big in the thighs, waist, and butt area. 

Still, you look in the mirror. Perfect: shiny and attention getting and fun. Maybe they aren’t subtle, but you aren’t feeling subtle tonight. Not anymore.

“It’s a shame they don’t fit,” you say, pinching the fabric between your fingers, willing them to stay put. “I look…” you search for the right word. 

“Wicked,” Marvus supplies. You’re pretty sure he means that in a good way. “Those are from before my growth spurt.” He says, turning in his chair to search in his vanity.

“What growth spurt?” you tease him. He’s only like, 5 inches taller than you. He gives you an exaggerated shocked look, playing at offended, before going back to his task.

You leave him to it and look at this new Chixie, the Chixie in the bell bottoms. You like the way you look- confident. Fun. Happy. This is the Chixie you want to be. You bite your lip, thinking hard about what you own that might replicate this feeling.

Marvus startles you with a hand to your hip.

“Hold still, this shit’s sharp,” he says. Before you know it, he’s pinning safety pins and band pins and who knows what else in the fabric surrounding your left hip and thigh. Suddenly, the pants fit on that side.

“You’re prolly still gonna need a belt,” he says, distracted as he moves to work on your right side. 

“Where’d you learn to do this?” you ask, moving around to give him more space. “Sewing seems a little too detail-oriented for you. No offense.”

“Nahh I can’t sew,” he starts. “But a clown knows how to be pinning LOL! I get to knowing lots of different costume designers- like, at my shows, or for events, shit like dat. I learned to pin my shit so they know exactly how I like it.” He pats you behind the thigh to signal that you can move. 

“Saves everyone a lot of fucking frustration,” he trails off. To be honest, the pins stuck in your thighs look a little strange- all different pins, from band pins to pins promoting art galleries to safety pins, glint in the overhead light of his dressing area. You aren’t thrilled to have a huge pin displaying the ghastly portrait of some rapper called Mr. Mime right on your hip for all to see, but you have to say the effect is fun, at least. Marvus has a good eye for design. It looks deliberate, like you’re making a fashion statement.

“Wow,” you can’t help it. “I’m impressed!” You turn around to smile at him. 

“Somethin’s still missing,” he says, bringing his finger to his chin as he checks you out. He snaps his fingers as he realizes what’s wrong, and starts taking off his cardigan. He wraps it around your shoulders, drawing you into his space. The cardigan is soft around you. Tt still unsettles you how cold he is; there’s no body heat left behind, or anything to suggest he was wearing it literally seconds ago besides his scent. Still, the fabric is soft and comforting around your shoulders.

“Perfect,” he says, smiling down at you. “Now we match, hehe!”

When he leans in to kiss you, you know he means it.

* * *

The seaside of highblood living gives way to the austere, no nonsense industrialism of the Alternian super highway. The orange light of the street lamps passes over your face in flashes as you pass them by, 120 mph. Marvus is quiet beside you, content and concentrated on driving. His hand on your knee is quieter than that. 

Marvus pulls into the empty lot of the omniscuttlebus station. Highblood omniscuttle stations seem to have smaller parking lots and less visitors- scanning your head around, you notice not a single car besides his. You’re expecting a valet, perhaps, to pick up his car and drive it to a second location before the concrete shifts from beneath your feet and gives way, seemingly devouring Marvus’s car before your eyes. He throws his keys unceremoniously down into the pit with it. Suddenly, you’re grateful that Marvus drove you here in his smaller sports car; if you’d had to witness this same feat with his limo, you fear you might have fainted.

The omniscuttlebus station itself also proves to be different from what you’re used to. The turnstiles have been rendered useless as clown after clown has wound ribbon and fabric and bells and who knows what else through them. The automated ticket booth that dispenses your change alongside your ticket lets out a loud ‘honk!’ and a spray of confetti. Unreal.

It’s almost like Marvus is going out of his way to drag you out of your comfort zone tonight. 

* * *

The first thing you notice about clown town is not how old the buildings are, shining bright through their stained glass and standing tall and sharp with their rainbow of spires and steeples. Nor is it the many store fronts draped with painted canvases to mimic tents.

No, the first thing you notice are the brown cobblestones when you first step foot from station stair to clown town proper. They’re immaculate, shiny and clean in a way that implies they see a lot of blood, and subsequently a lot of cleaning. You take a nervous swallow.

The wind forming from the air pressure difference of the omniscuttlebus leaving the station whips at your hair, pushes you forward. The screech of metal on metal as the useless turnstiles attempt to rid themselves of their ribbon prisons screams loud in your ears. Everything about this place is like a dream you can’t wake up from.

The smell hits you second- spicy, savory smells mingle with the greasy smell of fried food combined with the glitter of sugar that seems to permeate the air. This is a whole new vibe. It’s like a different planet. 

Marvus leads you through buildings as he spouts some history at you. You think he can sense your fraying nerves. His hand hasn’t left your waist, and his voice is low and comforting. He takes you past the largest building you’ve seen yet: a church with a stained glass depiction of a comically shredded troll, his foot heavy on the head of a skinnier troll who appears to be groveling. He has a shaken bottle of faygo in his hands and is spraying a foamy onslaught of soda down upon his comrade.

“Yo, that’s Marvus the Strong lol!” he says as his excited smile threatens to take over his whole face.

“You named yourself after that guy?” you say with horror. Marvus the Stong’s face isn’t depicted. Rather, his face paint sports a vicious smile. He looks terrifying.

“Deadass, boo. He was the first clown,” he pauses, bringing his hand up to his chin in consideration. “Well, the first painted face, anyway. He was a fucking revolutionary! Slamming about things for-fucking-told. Tell me that shit don’t suit me.”

He turns his head to you, winking. You roll your eyes at him, but you look at the stained glass once more. Implied to be standing in a crowd around these two- stained glass can only depict so much- are Marvus (the Strong)’s bloodthirsty disciples.

“It does suit you,” you tell him, suddenly sure. “Too bad you aren’t that ripped.”

He makes a mock-offended ‘oh shit!’ as you elbow him in the ribs before the two of you dissolve into laughter. 

You end up in a square that’s covered by multi colored canvases. You suppose this is supposed to represent a tent? Looking around, you see that you aren’t the only lowblood around, and you instinctively relax. But even with Marvus by your side, you know better than to relax completely around olives and up.

The flashing lights around you almost make the moons look dim. Looking up at Marvus, you watch his features dance in the pinks, yellows, and cotton candy blues that dominate the color scheme here. You get it, suddenly, why they paint their faces white. The colors are resplendent, shining and saturated against the white of his face, dipping in the shadows of his delighted expression and curving around the raise of his brows. 

When Marvus told you their face paint reflected their religious beliefs, you didn’t think he meant it quite so literally.

* * *

Where you might have been indecisive about making a decision between all of these food stalls, Marvus is exuberant. He drags you to one food stall where the chefs are juggling eggs and throwing seafood at each other. You delight in their antics with him, but decline the food. Seafood has always turned your stomach. 

“I always wanted to take you here,” he says as he pulls a tentacle off of his grilled squid. You can feel your face twisting in disgust- sea creatures remind you of the things you see in your nightmares- right at the edges. As if in response to your face, he slurps it down as noisily as he can. You hold a hand to your stomach in mock nausea, glaring at him, and he stops with a laugh that he swallows along with his food. Gross.

You watch a pair of clowns carrying what appears to be an entire orchestra on their back, leading a procession of quackbeasts and honkbeasts and cluckbeasts behind them, before he speaks again.

“Got to thinkin the other day,” he pauses as a stray quackbeast barrels through the two of you, hurrying to catch up with the rest of the procession. “Remembering how you was tellin me about what shit’s like for you. Talmbout ya hood an all that.”

“My hood…?” you question, making a motion that indicates putting a hood on your head.

“Your uh, suburb.” You shake your head. “The place you live with all those other people close and cozy by.”

“My subgrub?” 

“Yeah, that shit. You been showin me how your world works. Thought it was prime time I showed you mine.” 

You’re struck by what he said. This whole time, you thought he was challenging you, trying to bring you out of your element. You didn’t realize he was trying to show you something so personal to him. So close to the heart.

You feel like a major asshole.

You make it up to him by trying to be excited to be here. 

Most purplebloods eat a seafood-heavy diet. You don’t like the texture of fish, and you can’t eat any of the slimy ones. Not psychologically, anyway. It’s not easy to find food to be excited about, but all you can do is follow your nose and hope for the best.

You finally do find a food stall with real, edible food, not by following your nose, but by watching your fellow lowbloods. You lead Marvus to a nondescript vendor out on the outskirts of this square. The smell of curry and onions and sweet, juicy pineapple fills your nose. Curried locusts roast over coals, skewered on maple with pineapples, onions, tomatoes, and cubes of pumpkin. Marvus buys two skewers, then, once he passes them to you and sees the delighted look on your face, he laughs and buys three more.

One bite into your locust stick and you think you found clown heaven. The locusts are deliciously crunchy on the outside, and gooey on the inside from being slow roasted for so long. They must have just swarmed, because you detect a subtle nutty, roasted taste, like puffed wheat. Your whole body feels lighter, filled to the brim with joy and wonder and really fucking good food. 

You look towards Marvus, and he’s looking at you with this love-struck sort of grin so you stick your tongue at him. Then you motion to the skewers he clutches in his hand.

“They’re better when they’re hot,” you say, as if you eat these all the time. He shrugs his shoulders.

“Gotta wait until they cool,” he says, feigning nonchalance. You quirk a brow at him, ready to tear him a new one.

“What? Afraid you’ll get the third degree?” you tease, pulling a pineapple off the skewer with your teeth.

“Nah your gonna give that to me anyway lol. I’m afraid of getting burned,” you laugh as he blows air on his sticks, completely missing your point. “Hey, c’mon!” he starts laughing with you. “Man, you know I’m like 30 degrees cooler than you _got damn_ give me a fucking break.”

Your laughter dies down as an idea strikes you. You stop him with a hand to his bicep, ready to blow his fucking world with some smooth moves.

“Here,” you say, smiling at him with as much flirtatiousness as you can muster. “Try this.”

You don’t have to lean up much to kiss him, but you stand on your tiptoes anyway. You wonder what this looks like: a rustblood girl in eye-searing holographic bell bottoms kissing a clown in shades of traffic cone orange in front of the most forgettable food stall in downtown clown town. His lips are soft with smiling against yours, his arm coming up to hold you steady at the elbow. 

“Damn lol that was like sumn out of a romcom,” he says, his eyes still closed. Damn it, Marvus. “Left my heart fuckin stuttering like god damn.” That’s better, at least.

You watch him lick the curry flavor off his lips. It’s a little cute but mostly gross. He makes a contemplative look before he turns back towards you.

“Damn guess they are better when they’re hot,” he says, leaning in. You don’t kiss him this time, pressing a locust into his smile instead of your lips. 

But you do kiss him when he’s done chewing.

* * *

Your next stop is at the most ostentatious stall of them all. Lit up by bright lights- sunflower yellow, cotton candy blue, pastel pink alternate in a flashing, spiraling pattern- is a sign with huge letters: Mimika’s Rocket Dog Challenge. Immediately, you’re horrified by the name. 

“Damn, she’s never been here when I get to coming round before,” he says. You see him pout, as if it’s a personal offense. 

As you approach the stall, you notice the tiny, mime themed clown running it. Her face shifts from comically bored, staring at her nails with her head held in her hand, to clownish excitement as she sees the two of you approach. Her smile is wide and genuine, and you find yourself smiling with her. She holds her hand out like she’s holding an invisible tray, then she brings her flat palm, pinky first, towards her torso. You aren’t fluent in Alternian Sign, but you know a welcoming gesture when you see one. Then she points towards her nametag- _ Mimika_, written in looping. playful cursive. You smile and wave. Marvus opens his big mouth.

“Ay cuz! Whus popp-” she cuts him off with a hurried hand gesture before pointing to her ears and striking her two index fingers together. 

“Yeah, uh,” Marvus starts nervously moving his hands around, clearly out of his element. Mimika watches his lips with amusement, then his hands, before catching your eye and smiling a knowing smirk. You point up, to the huge sign boasting her apparently signature challenge. She nods her head and you hold up your fingers- _two_. She starts putting on some latex gloves after Marvus hands her some cash. She walks further into her stall for a moment, before returning with two trays, each one holding a star-shaped tuft of cotton candy. Then she turns on her grill and pulls out a pair of bright red and pink spiraled oblong meat products. She catches your eye, making a questioning expression as she taps her temple with her fingers. Marvus gives her a thumbs up, apparently confident in his ability to convey that, at least, before removing you from the line that’s forming behind you. 

“You heard of this?” he asks, gesturing to the stall beside you. You shake your head ‘no,’ captivated by the sight of Mimika juggling a pair of spatulas and, occasionally, your oblong meat products. You really hope you don’t catch any malevolent parasites tonight.

“Aight so here’s the deal. Those dogs she got,” he points to the oblong meat products as Mimika slaps them silly right onto the grill. “They’re spicier than the flames of fucking echoside, ya heard?”

You nod, suddenly excited. You love spicy food, and you happen to know that Marvus acts like a big grub about it.

“So the game is that you gotta stuff your mouth with some cotton candy,” he holds his tray up as Mimika steps onto her counter, dangling the oblong meat products over the high, plastic divide. He catches each one on its respective tray. “That shit makes it a lil easier. Then you chase it down with some faygo. I go for rock and rye, personally,” he holds out his hand as Mimika, on cue, drops down two cans of soda. He catches both. You’re secretly thrilled to watch Marvus in his clownish element. 

“How do you win?” you ask as he hands you your tray.

“You’ll see,” he winks, gingerly picking up his wad of cotton candy between two fingers. He shoves it unceremoniously into his mouth before he seems to remember something.

“Deresh a technigue to it,” he slurs. He picks up his oblong meat product- dog, you guess?- and rips it in half before shoving both halves in his mouth, too. Quickly, he chews and swallows before grabbing his can of faygo and downing it like a man with an unquenchable thirst. You feel competitive. You quickly do the same.

You understand the problem as you gingerly place the cotton candy in your mouth. As soon as your tongue touches it, it starts to dissolve. Quickly, you attempt to swallow down your dog, but it’s too late. Slowly, your mouth goes from ‘pleasantly spicy’ to ‘the flames of fiery hell.’ Your face feels like it’s on fire, you want to cough but your breath exacerbates the problem. Marvus hands you his own open can of soda and you swallow it down. It helps.

You notice the sweat forming underneath Marvus’s face paint, and you use your sleeve to wipe away your own sweat from your brow. You both look towards Mimika.

She pulls out a wooden sign from behind her back, the image printed on it reads: 🚫.

He’s smiling between coughs now, grabbing you by the shoulder in solidarity. You can’t help it- a laugh bubbles up and out of you despite the pain of your burning mouth. This is the most fun you’ve had in a long time.

You open your own can of faygo now, raising it to him in a cheer, then you down the whole thing.

* * *

Your walk through clown town slows as your food settles cozy in your belly. Marvus has shown you the wonders of fried cookies and caramel coated exploded kernels and cheesy grub loaf. You wonder how he stays so trim if his diet is like this all the time.

The thing is, there’s so much to learn about his world. You watch a busker who’s managing to play the accordion, some cymbals, and the kazoo all at the same time. You can clearly hear this music’s influence on Marvus, through his own music. You wonder how it’s going to affect yours.

A magician catches you next, holding his flower out to Marvus. Marvus grabs it only to pull nearly a meter of tied handkerchiefs from the magician’s sleeve. Marvus makes this delighted smile as you clap. You join Marvus’s personal space as you walk away, feeling the different textures of the fabric. Marvus tucks the flower behind your ear before winding the length of kerchiefs around your head, fashioning a headband for you.

“Why did we get all dressed up, anyway?” you ask him as he leads you away, back towards the omniscuttlebus station. The moons are starting to dip below the horizon, leaving the world in the deep indigos and navys of the blue hour, the darkest part of the day night cycle.

“Cause it’s a date,” he says simply. “Don’t need a reason to make you feel good.” He offers his arm to you.

You take it, leaning your head onto him. As you stifle a yawn, you realize you feel refreshed. Wiped clean, somehow. You’re startled out of your reverie when the maypoles- now revealing themselves to be blacklights- light up. 

The dull brown of the previously immaculate cobblestones light up in hundreds of different pictures- all seeing eyes and lions and tents and puppets. You pull away from him, taking in the pictures as far as your eye can see.

And you realize that perspective is a two way street.

* * *

There’s a certain atmosphere to an empty station.

All of the vendors, selling snacks or magazines, have gone home for the morning. It’s quiet, empty in a hollow way. You feel like you aren’t supposed to be here, the thrill of sneaking in lighting up in your chest. Your footsteps echo alongside Marvus’s and you sound like a crowd. 

You study Marvus in profile as his reads the schedule. His eyes are tired, but his expression is serene. You’ve still got him by the arm, so his whole body tilts toward you slightly. The tinny, classical music from the speakers has him bobbing his head to the beat, so slight that you wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t doing it too. 

“This is silly,” you start, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, the same way Marvus does when he gets embarrassed, you realize. “But I’ve always wondered what it would be like to dance at like, a ball or something.”

“Yeah? Getting hoity-toity on my ass?” His smile is kind, though, as he turns to face you. “I been to one. It’s like…” his eyes flash purple. Normally, chucklevoodoos feel like a battering ram, fracturing your skull and giving you a real headache. Marvus, though, feels like he’s tapping lightly at the door, asking for permission.

So you let him in. The voodoos that permeate your pan are cool and soft and honestly a little foreign, like someone cracked a cluckbeast ovum over your exposed pan meats. But, slowly, the station changes. You can’t _really_ see everything if you look at it too hard- and you silently thank Marvus for going easy on you- but out of the corner of your eye, you see gold and white marble columns. Tiles made of more of the gold and white marble, interspersed with black and grey. Vague troll shapes dressed to the nines in frills and poufs and old-timey dress, dancing with their partners. The classical music that plays over the speakers is just as tinny.

You smile. Yeah, you can believe that Marvus has been to exactly one.

“...like this,” he finishes softly. 

He holds his arms out to you and you step into him. His hand hits your hip right as yours finds his shoulder. You don’t really know how to dance, not like this, but you’ve seen videos of it. That should be good enough to start with.

He starts off with what you’re pretty sure is a waltz. He sucks at it, too loose and wiggly and suggestive in nature to be good at any sort of formal dance, really.

“I used to dream of this,” you say, abandoning your waltz in favor of leaning your head on his chest and swaying together. “Getting snatched up by some highblood. Dancing at fancy balls. Eating those tiny sandwiches.” He chuckles fondly at that last part.

“What changed?” he pushes gently.

“I grew up,” you tell him, closing your eyes. “Highbloods scare the hell out of me.”

He hums at you in understanding. You open your eyes again. 

The beauty of the station hits you all at once, and you aren’t sure if it’s because of Marvus’s lingering voodoos or your new perspective. The shine of the turquoise tiles. The buzz of the lights, straining hard to use up every last bit of their juice. The empty stands of the vendors and the restrained turnstile. This is what you want, these days. These are the dreams you have.

Soon, trolls are entering the station with you and your dance comes to an end. As the drone of conversation reaches a crescendo, the tinny classical music becomes a distant afterthought, unheard and unappreciated. Marvus informs you that you still have about twenty minutes before your ‘train’ arrives. You lead him to the steps and sit down without fanfare.

People are still filtering in, but now in smaller groups of two or three, so the two of you are left alone. Marvus pulls out a brown paper bag from who knows where and takes a sip from it before offering you some.

You take a dainty sniff- cotton candy faygo. You almost feel cheated. Still, you take a swig from the bottle.

Something unsettles in your chest, uncomfortable against the serene beat of your heart.

“Marvus,” you catch his attention. He looks down at you. “I feel so sad that I’ve missed out on this. All of this,” you gesture to the station and the exit, thinking of Mimika. Your curried locusts. The clown statue with the huge ridiculous tits right in the center of town. Your holographic pants and his cardigan around you.

“Damn, maybe we should go pirating next,” he quips, taking another sip of his faygo through his smirk.

You laugh, the juxtaposition of all of your conflicting emotions making some kind of sense, for once. 

“I’m just glad you brought me here,” you tell him, as sincere as you dare.

“Yeah? Baby girl, are you starting to,” he lowers his head at you, suddenly serious. “...believe?” his brow quirks.

You take in the image of him, sitting one step above you. The light of the outside world is harsh in contrast to the relative dark of the station, lighting him up from behind. Something stills in your chest for one beat, two.

Then the two of you are laughing uproariously together. _ No_, you think. _ Obviously not_.

“No tiny sandwiches, then?” he asks, his eyes bright with laughter.

“I’m more of a rocket dog kind of girl,” you say.

As your lips meet his, the train comes into the station. The wind whips your clothes around your bodies and your hair around your heads.

You don’t think you have to tell him that you love him. But, someday, you will.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: Thank you so much to Magicalpossum, who helped beta read this! As of 8/27 they read through my work and helped me spot some things I would have never seen myself. My work is better for it and I'm eternally grateful! 
> 
> For those curious as to what exactly Mimika was signing, here are the signs I was attempting to convey, in order of appearance:
> 
> "Welcome!" (https://www.lifeprint.com/asl101/pages-signs/w/welcome.htm)  
"Can't" (https://www.lifeprint.com/asl101/pages-signs/c/cant.htm)  
"Know" (https://www.lifeprint.com/asl101/pages-signs/k/know.htm)
> 
> Please if you are deaf/HOH, feel free to let me know if I should include or remove any details regarding her!


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